Crying
by bethanyyerinn
Summary: Where John is the sociopath for once. Johnlock. Fluff. Set somewhere in series two (after Hounds of Baskerville, before Reichenbach).
1. The Plan Arises

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**My fics are turning ridiculous, I know it, but y'all will just have to deal with it or go read something else. **

**Rated K+ for cursing.**

**WARNING, PLEASE READ****: In the second chapter, there's a big spoiler for the film ****_Brokeback Mountain_****. If you haven't seen it and don't want it spoiled, then maybe you should avoid reading this (I'd suggest ****_Brokeback Mountain_**** though, if you haven't seen it. Especially as slash fans, you might like it. It will rip your heart out and step on it, but I enjoyed it a great deal. So you can go watch it and THEN read this fic). The other films mentioned I avoid spoiling.**

* * *

><p>'Angry' really doesn't cut it this time. Furious? Maybe. Enraged? Closer. But mostly he's just baffled. They've been friends for a <em>very<em> long time. Too long. He's seen the world's only consulting detective at his most insensitive. But still, he didn't expect something like this, not even from Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>John was on a date. Her name was Margery.<p>

Before he even left for the restaurant, Sherlock made known his viable and totally logical argument against the outing.

"_Margery_? What kind of name is that?" he asked distastefully from the settee, where he was examining his skull closely for some god-forsaken reason.

"Seriously, _Sherlock_?" John asked, putting emphasis on his own less-than-common name.

"I choose to go by my middle name, because William is far too mundane for my taste."

"What, a name can't be too boring, but can't be too unusual either? You're sure hard to please."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "My _point_ is, I _chose_ mine, whereas she just was given an unfortunate name and stayed with it. Which means she's boring and you'll hate her."

John sighed tiredly. "I get that you're a genius and all, but you haven't even _met_ her. You can't make deductions when you haven't even seen her."

"In this case, I don't need to see her. So there you go, no need to waste your time on her, glad that's decided. Want to order a takeaway? Chinese, perhaps?"

John looked at him in annoyed bewilderment for a long moment before saying, "Sherlock, nothing's decided. I'm going to that place on Northumberland street and you can't bully me out—"

Sherlock had slowly sat up while John was speaking before saying, in a strange voice, "You're going where?"

John blinked. "That place you took me when we first met. It's very good. I take dates there sometimes."

"I didn't know that."

"Did I _need_ to tell you that, _mum_?" John asked mockingly.

"Well it's just—you—" Sherlock grunted in frustration. "Oh, whatever, go waste your whole night on a boring strumpet, what do I care?" He curled up into a ball facing the back of the couch.

"_Strumpet_?" John asked his back indignantly. "Now you're just being childish."

"Are we still having this conversation?" Sherlock said, not looking at John. "I thought you were going somewhere."

John glared at him for a long moment before huffing in irritation and storming out of the flat.

So John thought that was that.

But apparently John had made a grave mistake in telling Sherlock where the date was going to be.

John and Margery had been chatting for less than a half hour. Not long enough for their food to have arrived. She wasn't a bad woman. She was decently pretty, and she was pretty clever—clever enough to own her own business in London, a nice tea shop that doubled as a flower shop.

Admittedly, she wasn't the most interesting person in the world. John couldn't see himself falling passionately in love with her or anything. But she was pleasant, and conversation with her was comfortable. There wasn't any awkwardness, not even when they were just meeting, and he liked that. He could have a good time with her, he knew that already.

The man who owned the store remembered him. He always did. Called him 'Sherlock's friend', even though he knew John's name by now.

That was the first thing he and Margery talked about.

"Angelo seems very fond of this Sherlock fellow. Is he a good friend of yours?"

John didn't bring up that they were flatmates right off. It wasn't a good very first detail to tell a woman, that you shared a place with another man. Most weren't judgmental or anything, but the assumption that he was gay had come up once or twice.

So he said, "In a manner of speaking, yes. We work together occasionally."

"Doing what?"

John didn't really want to talk about Sherlock, but he was able to avoid the question by thanking Angelo for their drinks and then change the subject smoothly enough that she didn't notice.

That's when they started actually talking and he was enjoying himself.

And then someone sat next to them at the table, and John was about to turn and ask (not so nicely) if the person was lost—

And there at the table next to him, with his collar up to look cool and his dead, cold eyes, was Sherlock.

John couldn't speak. His jaw just dropped and he gaped.

Margery was looking at John for an explanation that he was unable to give. So after a very uncomfortable couple of seconds, Sherlock turned to her with his false smile and manners and said, "Hello. Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh," she said in surprise. "Yes, we were just talking about you."

Sherlock looked smug. "Oh, I see. All good things?"

"Well… we didn't say much… what are you doing here, exactly." She was now looking between John and Sherlock questioningly. John had stopped staring now and had resorted to a hard glare.

"I just had business in the area and saw John. I wasn't aware I was interrupting anything. I'm very sorry. I can go."

This wasn't happening. God, this wasn't happening. Sherlock was playing her. That was immediately obvious. He already knew what type of person she was, and that was the type that would be polite even if it meant something she didn't prefer happened.

"Oh, it's alright," she said with a smile. "You can stay if you like."

John wanted to slap a hand to his forehead.

_This wasn't happening_. That was his mantra, over and over.

"Oh, good." Sherlock said with another grin. "So, Margery. Margery…"

She didn't ask how he knew her name, but it was obvious the thought crossed her mind. "Winston."

"Margery Winston. Uh huh. Alright, and you have three cats. You own a shop in central London. It sells flowers—no wait. Tea. Both? Yes, both. You—"

As soon as Sherlock started his deductions, John's face had gone into his hands. He was still unable to speak at first, but then he realised he had to stop this. "Sherlock, dear god, _please_ stop."

"Oh, I'm just getting to know your _friend_."

"I don't know why the fuck you're here, but just _leave_. _Now_."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll move out."

He didn't mean to say it, but now Margery knew.

And even her polite nature didn't stop her from saying something. "You live together?" she asked.

"For quite a while, yes. I do detective work, he blogs about it, it's quite fun. But we weren't talking about me. We were talking about you." Margery was figuring out that Sherlock wasn't here innocently now. She looked very uncomfortable. But she said nothing as Sherlock continued, "You used to work in hospital work, which was what interested you in John in the first place on his profile. You were the direct cause of a patient's death, however, and left the profession."

Margery now looked angry. Really angry.

"Well," she said, standing up stiffly. She was about to cry. Obviously Sherlock had just brought up her darkest secret, something buried deep and hoped never to about again. And he'd done it on purpose. "It was nice to meet you, John."

And she stormed out.

* * *

><p>So here they are now, on their way up to the flat. John hasn't talked to Sherlock the whole way back.<p>

Sherlock's low sometimes. Petty too. But this… this was real cruelty. Usually, when Sherlock says horrible things to people, he doesn't know why it would hurt them. And sure, that's irritating in itself, but at least you know he isn't being mean for the fun of it. He just doesn't understand why the truth hurts people.

But this time, John saw it in his eyes. Sherlock was _trying_ to hit her where it hurt. He was being hateful for the hell of it, and he was _enjoying_ it.

And that's too much for John to handle.

John was planning on sitting down, but he's so angry he can't even bring himself to sit. He just stands near the doorway—far enough that Sherlock can come inside and shut the door, but close enough that he's in Sherlock's personal space when he does so—and glares up at him.

"Alright, get the lecture over with," Sherlock says blandly.

John huffs a breath out his nose angrily. "No. You don't get to be blasé about this. Margery was—

"Dull! That's what she was!"

"No. Sherlock. No." He's shaking his head. "She was kind. And I was having a nice time, and you came and spoiled it! You brought up something to hurt her intentionally. I let all the things you say go because usually you aren't trying to be mean, unless they were mean first. But that time you punished her because you were mad at me, and that's not fair."

"Mad at you? John, don't be—"

John doesn't want to hear it. He tries to be sensitive when Sherlock shows his soft side, for the most part. He knows how much it scares Sherlock. But he doesn't have the patience to be kind. He isn't sure Sherlock deserves it. So he says, "You only got really cross when you knew where we were going. You just had hurt feelings that I was taking her to a place we go, to a place you associate with our friendship, but instead of telling me that, you acted out like a child. You're just afraid of your feelings and we both know it."

Sherlock gets a cold look in his eyes. John's never seen a look of real denial on Sherlock's face, but he wonders if that's what this is. "John, that's ridiculous. I was just saving you some trouble. If I were capable of crying, she would bore me to tears, and I didn't—"

John finds himself surprised enough that his anger subsides for a moment. "Capable of crying? What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock raises a brow. "I mean what I said."

"You _can't_ cry?" John asks incredulously.

"No. Of course not. Not since I learned to communicate my grievances with words."

And in John's fury at Sherlock, he gets an idea. A horrible, perfect idea.

And because of this idea, when Sherlock says a moment later, "You have any more complaints, or are we done?"

Sherlock's obviously expecting more. John doesn't give it to him. He sighs, and he says, "Well, she _was_ pretty boring. I guess it's not so horrible."

Sherlock looks surprised. Maybe even a little suspicious. But he lets it go, because Sherlock hates fighting with John. And he doesn't believe John can cook up a plan this devious, surely.

So Sherlock nods and goes over to the kitchen to work on an experiment.

"But don't do it in the future," John adds brusquely, just to make sure Sherlock doesn't suspect anything from John letting him off so easily.

"Yes, okay," he mutters, with no sincerity whatsoever. It only reinforces the brilliance of the idea in John's mind.

And John knows his plan is evil, but he can't help but think that after all the things Sherlock has done to other people… maybe he deserves a little hurt himself.

* * *

><p>It's simple, really, John's plan. Well, the idea of it is. The execution is more complicated.<p>

Sherlock says he can't cry. John doesn't believe it, and he wants to prove the detective wrong.

He'd seen Sherlock after he saw the Hound. Sure, he wasn't crying, but he was highly affected by it. Anyone that can be affected that much about anything can cry, if given enough reason to.

John wants to find out what it is.

He knows it'll be difficult, but somehow he's decided it's worth it.

Sherlock's his friend, and he knows somewhere inside that it's beyond fucked up to try to upset someone emotionally to the point of crying—especially since for someone like Sherlock, it might take something severe to do it—but he's just so convinced that the self-proclaimed sociopath deserves it that he can't feel bad about it.


	2. Physicality

His experiment starts the next day.

He starts with the physical. He knows it's a long shot, but hey, maybe it could work.

Obviously, even vengeful, mean John isn't bad enough to severely hurt Sherlock himself. Especially not anything lasting.

But he may or may not have been willing to put him into situations that _could_ get him hurt. I mean, they do that all the time anyway with their hobby of chasing dangerous criminals all over creation.

So the next day when Sherlock announces that a certain Harry Curtis needs to be caught and apprehended, and the case inevitably leads to a man-hunt, John's already got a plan in mind.

Basically, he's clumsy. He starts purposefully shoving into Sherlock and making it look like an accident, hoping to shove Sherlock into something hard enough that it really hurt.

John knew it wasn't likely, but he never truly appreciated how graceful Sherlock was until then. Sherlock was too quick, mentally and physically, to be thwarted like that. He'd skitter out of John's way every time, looking exasperated, but mostly saying nothing about it. Sherlock expects John to be stupid, for the most part. That certainly helps John's chances in not getting found out in this whole endeavour, even if it is unendingly annoying.

But he finds quickly that hurting him inadvertently isn't going to work. John is sure that he can't purposefully hurt Sherlock. So pain is struck off the list quickly.

His next one is also pretty dumb, but he figures it's a possibility.

Onions.

So John starts making dinner, and calls to Sherlock passive aggressively about totally not needing help. Sherlock moans as loudly as he can, but still gets up and comes to the kitchen.

"Don't look so put out. I'm giving you a knife."

Sherlock's brow goes up. "You've mentioned on several occasions that you don't like the idea of me with a knife."

"Yeah, well, that onion needs cutting, so I'll get over it."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but nonetheless goes over to the onion, wields the knife, and gets to chopping.

And even if Sherlock doesn't cry, he decides that this whole thing will have been worth it anyhow, just to watch Sherlock try to cut a damn onion.

Sherlock, being the master of so many things, is spectacularly ignorant on things that normal people can do with ease. Such as naming the planets in the solar system, getting groceries, and apparently cutting onions.

He's looking fairly casual about it at first, but then after a minute of investigating the onion at several angles, he's particularly nonplussed.

"Erm… Sherlock, need a hand?"

"Of course not. I'm merely determining the best course of action."

John raises a brow at him. "What, you've never cut an onion before?"

Sherlock glares over to John with a look he's seen a million times before, the 'your stupid questions tire me' face.

"Need me to give you an easier job, princess?"

Sherlock glares harder. "I'll be just fine, John."

John gestures to the onion. "Alright then. Go on."

Sherlock looks just barely embarrassed. "Don't you have something else to prepare?"

"Something better to do than watch you make a fool of yourself? Not in a million years."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but gets back to the onion. He tilts his head, looking at the knife.

Part of John wants to give him advice, because he feels so sorry for the poor, helpless man. At least to peel the thing.

But most of him wants to watch his flat mate suffer and giggle maniacally as he did.

But Sherlock does, in fact, figure the peel thing out. Once he picks up the onion to take a look at it from yet another angle, he feels the consistency and seems to decide that any onion he's ever eaten doesn't feel like that. He starts peeling it off into the trashcan and John bites his lip to keep from laughing.

"What?" Sherlock demands. "I don't have to help you, you know."

"You're right. You don't. And then you'll prove that all you need to thwart the great Sherlock Holmes is an onion."

If Sherlock's ever going to go bad and start killing people, it's now, by the look on his face, because he really looks ready to kill John.

But John's right, of course. Sherlock looks back to the onion, finishing peeling it, and then picks up the knife again. Poises the onion. Prepares to make incision. Brings the knife down on the center.

John begins to applaud when the thing is in two pieces, and he didn't know it was possible for the look on Sherlock's face to get meaner, but it does. And John just wants to laugh.

But Sherlock gets back to the onion and does a few more slices. And a few more. He gets more confident. It doesn't look good, but he's succeeding.

And maybe, in hindsight, John should have thought of the next thing that happened as karma. But he's too shocked to consider that this was ironically what he had asked to happen.

Because Sherlock brings the knife down on his finger next.

Sherlock hisses and drops the knife to the ground in surprise.

"Sherlock?" John asks frantically, coming over to Sherlock quickly to look at the wound. It's deep, but not particularly severe, as it didn't get through the bone or anything. The knife was sharp enough that it's a clean slice. It probably stings pretty good, with the onion juice in it.

And of course, John is concerned, and not at all glad this has happened to Sherlock.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't check to see if Sherlock's got tears in his eyes anyhow.

And no. No he doesn't. He's looking down at his sliced finger in frustration, but no tears.

Yeah. John didn't count on this.

"Want me to take you to hospital, or should I stitch it up myself?" Sherlock gives him that 'you're stupid' look again. John rolls his eyes. "I'll get my kit."


	3. Filmography

The next idea John has isn't very much better, but he tries it out anyway.

Sad films.

He does a lot of research online for films that make people cry. You know, those trashy "23 Films That Are Sure To Make You Bawl!" articles. He finds films that are on several lists, and he rents them all.

Okay, not all. He's pretty sure that there's no reason good enough for him to rent a Nicolas Sparks film, even though _The Notebook_ and _A Walk to Remember_ were on too many lists to count. He's seen _The Titanic_, and he didn't cry one bit, so Sherlock isn't bound to. He counts out musicals too. He's never seen one—and he's not against them as an institution, but he doubts Sherlock will be affected by _Les Mis__érables_ for some reason.

He also decides on avoiding any battlefield drama films, just because the last thing he needs is a trigger during his experiment. Sure, maybe Mycroft's right and John doesn't suffer from PTSD but just misses his time serving the Crown. Maybe, but John doesn't want to risk it.

He ends up picking films he hasn't seen before, because he wants to know if he will cry in them himself. Just out of curiosity. He's never cried from a film before, but he's never been one for sad films anyway.

John's not sure this will work. In fact, he's nearly sure it won't. But there was no point in doing the experiment at all if he wasn't thorough. Plus, John almost hopes something more simple like this might get Sherlock, so he doesn't have to try anything more drastic.

For Sherlock thinking John to be so dim, John has gotten very good at playing Sherlock right into his hands.

John gets the films all at once and sits down in front of the telly after putting in _The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas_, his first selection.

Sherlock's sitting at John's computer, having guessed the password again. John thought he might actually get Sherlock this time by the password being a reference to John's childhood that he'd never mentioned and Sherlock had never deduced aloud. But somehow, the name of John's goldfish was there in his mind palace.

Anyway. The previews are rolling and John's said nothing to Sherlock about it.

It takes halfway through the first preview before Sherlock asks, sounding bored, "What're you watching?"

"Don't think you would be interested."

That gets Sherlock every time. If Sherlock's anything, it's contrary, and telling him he won't like something is a challenge.

Sherlock will watch a film with John if John asks, but he'll do so grudgingly. If John tells him he won't like it, then he'll really pay attention.

"Really?" he asks, sitting down on the chair across from John, perched with his feet underneath him. John almost chuckles. It's too easy. Good placement, too. If Sherlock cries, John'll see it from here. "And what is it?" asks Sherlock nonchalantly.

John passes him the cover and Sherlock looks it over shrewdly. He also seems to notice _Schindler's List_ on top of the pile on the table, because he says blandly, "Are you developing a fascination with World War II dramas?"

John just shrugs, not being able to think of an explanation. Sherlock doesn't pry any further, but he does watch the film with John, and _Schindler's List_ too. They hit John emotionally, but somehow he doesn't cry. Obviously that means Sherlock doesn't either.

When John moves to put in the third disc, Sherlock mentions it. "What, are you going to watch telly all day? That's not like you."

"I'm in a vegging mood," John explains.

"And what's our next title?"

John tosses the case to _The Dead Poet's Society_ to him and this time Sherlock's face is completely unreadable for a long moment. He picks up the other two as well.

Sherlock's starting to make the connection now, John can tell.

He holds up _The Grave of the Fireflies_. "I've never seen you watch anime before."

"I was curious."

"And were you curious about homosexual romance as well?" he asks as he picks up _Brokeback Mountain_. Admittedly, that one's out of John's comfort zone, but he's heard it's a real tear-jerker.

"I've told you before, it's all fine." John saying it reminds him of the restaurant, which reminds him of why he's mad at Sherlock in the first place.

He half expects Sherlock to get huffy about the Margery thing at being reminded. Surely Sherlock made the same connection.

But Sherlock's face isn't indignant. It's _something_ other than stoic though, even though John's not sure what it is, and that makes John wonder if that film will make an impact on Sherlock. John keeps it in mind.

_Dead Poet's Society_ hits John harder than the other two did. His eyes burn pretty severely near the end, and he's pretty sure he would have cried, were he not paying so much attention to Sherlock while still attempting not to _look_ like he was paying attention to him.

Sherlock's unmoved. Okay, not completely. He admits after that one that it was 'rather tragic', but he says it in a clinical way, not feeling the emotions, not the way John is.

John thinks he wants to be done with his stint with sad films, but he has to get through this—no matter how silly it sounds—for science.

_Grave of the Fireflies_ doesn't make John cry either, but he's starting to feel the buildup of so many depressing films all in a row now. He's just generally sad by now, and angry at the world for being a horrible place.

But there's only one left. He's a soldier, for Christ's sake, he can handle some sad films.

_Brokeback Mountain_ is last.

Sherlock doesn't cry. He should have known he wouldn't.

But god, John does.

He doesn't expect it to hit him the way it does. He doesn't know why it does, actually. _Boy In The Striped Pyjamas_ and _The Dead Poet's Society_ were logically more sad, in John's opinion. But neither film punches John in the gut like _Brokeback_ does.

The whole film surprises him. First of all, he's way less uncomfortable with the gay love story than he thinks he'll be. Even the sex scene doesn't bother him, not at all. He's entranced with it, actually, if he's being honest with himself. There's something about hard body on hard body, about two beings that were so similar being together like that, that's more than a little intriguing. Enticing, even.

John for the first time in his life starts honestly questioning his sexuality and that's a little frightening to him. People have been doing it for years now, ever since Sherlock came into his life. But he never really wondered until now.

Past that though, there's Jack's death. That's when John's basically blubbering. It's unexpected, for one. And caused by his sexuality—or at least that's implied—and with John's orientation-based-crisis going on in his mind, this gets to him.

But then there's the very end, where Ennis takes Jack's old shirt in his hands and cries.

And in John's mind, he has this ridiculous, horrific vision.

It's so vivid it takes John's breath away.

_John's standing in 221B, and Sherlock's coat is hung up just inside the door. John's looking at the coat with dead eyes before taking it into his arms and inhaling it. Sherlock. It smells just like him. John chokes on a sob, but bites his lip to hold it in. "Dear god, I swear…" he whispers to himself, knowing that nobody's there to hear him. _

John's a mess when it's over. A bloody fucking mess.

He doesn't want to look at Sherlock, to see the look on his face now. Disgusted? Maybe just exasperated.

And then the cushion next to him depresses, and Sherlock's sitting down.

Sherlock says nothing and doesn't move to touch him. Just sits there. But that's enough for John to know that Sherlock's taking his feelings seriously for once.

It makes John wonder if Sherlock was also affected.

So he calms himself down enough to not be embarrassed at what his face might look like and looks at Sherlock's face.

He's not apathetic, that's certain. But everything on his face is concern for John, not his own emotion. Or at least it doesn't seem that way.

John's still sniffling like a child when he says, "I thought you'd—you'd tease me for getting so—so worked up over a film."

"Maybe normally," Sherlock replies carefully, "but that reaction seemed too severe to be about the film at all. Is something else bothering you?"

John's surprised Sherlock's even asking. It seems so unlike him.

John can't deny it though. He just keeps looking up at Sherlock, into those eyes that are so full of worry. And he's appreciative. He really is.

Sherlock would never leave him. He just wouldn't.

But the question is… why does the idea of Sherlock leaving terrify John _this_ much? He isn't sure having the same vision of his mother would have made him react like that.

But he doesn't dare say that to Sherlock.

He stands up. "I'm fine."

"John…"

"I'm _fine_," he repeats irritably, going upstairs.

Sherlock doesn't follow.


	4. Sensibility

This is where John starts doing research into alternative causes of tears, because he doesn't realize until the day after the film fiasco that he doesn't have anything else planned.

His research comes up with pretty interesting results. There's ample evidence that never crying can be bad for both your physical and mental health. There are a lot of effects on the body when you cry, but there's a simple biochemical one in there that John never knew. It releases stress hormones from the body—and anyone who knows anything knows that too much stored-up stress can be bad for you.

If John's being honest, he stays cooped up in his room all day, partaking in what he's heard called "A Wiki-Walk", because he would read up on one thing, see a link to something else, and then read up on that too. One minute he'd be reading about crying, and then he'd be reading about prolactin, then lactation, then the Dayak fruit bat.

John likes to think he got much smarter that day.

But anyway, his research that was actually about crying came up with results that were not as helpful as he wanted.

Basically, people cry for a ton of reasons. Happiness, pain, sadness, frustration. People cry when they see something beautiful, or when they are anxious.

In conclusion, John's at a loss. There's no point in even trying any of the positive emotions. This is Sherlock. Sadness doesn't do it, or anxiety, or anger—at least not to the extent that John has seen him experience it. And he knows he's not mean enough to put Sherlock through any real emotional turmoil—and even if he were, how would he go about that?

So in the end, he knows there's no way he can finish his experiment.

And right around the time he makes that realization is when fate steps in.

* * *

><p>"John, would you hurry up?" Sherlock snaps it from several metres ahead, but doesn't bother to look back.<p>

Sherlock, with all his intelligence, never seemed to figure out that John's shorter legs and more advanced age make it pretty close to impossible for him to keep up. John's in better shape than other men his age, but he's still not as young as he once was. It takes its toll.

And then John trips. Sherlock's already rounded a corner when it happens, so he doesn't notice.

John grumbles in frustration. It didn't hurt very badly, but it's certainly annoying. And admittedly, his ankle is smarting more than his other minor injuries. He gets in a position to make sure it isn't damaged. He'll catch up with Sherlock in a mo'.

"Amazing."

John freezes. He's heard that voice before. But… they're not even chasing Moriarty right now. This crime has nothing at all to do with him. But John knows that's his voice.

John doesn't turn. He doesn't want to look.

"What's amazing?"

Jim laughs heartily, that laugh of his with no humour. John can hear him walking in the other direction. He wishes he had his gun on him. Sherlock did some experiment on it earlier this week and John hadn't gotten it back. Tosser.

"What's funny?" John snaps.

"By pure dumb luck, the both of you missed every single one."

"Miss—what?"

"You weren't supposed to fall either. I suppose that's the opposite of luck."

"What the hell—"

Then there's another sound John knows. The sound of an aluminium can hitting the ground, as if thrown. What, had Moriarty finished a beer and thrown the remnants? That doesn't seem like him.

"My aim really is impressive," Moriarty continues to drawl.

John's still confused, but he's starting to get a bad feeling. He starts to scramble to his feet.

"Oh, John, it's too late now." He's calling it from somewhat far now. "I gave them a delay so dear Sherlock wouldn't be in the blast. But I don't much care if you are."

John's figured it out now.

But Moriarty's right. Too late.

A blast. He's knocked to the ground.

Then nothing.

* * *

><p>Everything's bleary in his head. There's beeping. And… people are yelling. His eyes are registering nothing. John isn't even sure if his eyes are open or closed. He hopes they're closed. Otherwise, he's gone blind.<p>

He can't feel his body, not really, but he's pretty sure it's all there.

That's all the stock he can take of himself before he's gone again.

ZzZzZ

"Mr Holmes, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"I'm not leaving, you imbecile. Look at him!"

"I _am_ looking at him. That's why I need you to go."

"Not a chance."

ZzZzZ

"Johnny, love. Eat all your supper, or there'll be no pudding."

"Aw, Nan, it's my birthday!"

"And ten year olds have to eat the same as nine year olds."

"But—"

"None of that! Supper!"

ZzZzZ

"Sherlock, get some sleep."

"Don't you have someone else to annoy, _Inspector_?"

"You can't sit here forever."

"I don't have time or patience for this right now. I plan to be here when he wakes up, and that means staying _right here_."

A sigh. "Sherlock. They've told you this before. He might not wake up at—"

"Shut up! Get out!"

"Being in denial about it won't—"

"Get _OUT_!"

A long silence, and then a second, a heavier sigh. "Okay. Okay. Just… Prepare yourself, Sherlock. For the worst."

The door closes quietly.

"John. Don't listen to him. You're… you're fine. You have to be fine. You _have_ to be."

ZzZzZ

"Oh John. This was never a part of my plan, but it really is working out the way I want. Sherlock's a mess. I'm a little ashamed that this wasn't my intention. I just thought it would be poetic for him to be the cause of dozens of deaths by tripping one of the wires. But he wouldn't have felt bad for that. This… it's perfect. No plan to destroy Sherlock is complete without you, John. I should thank you." A cackle. "Ready for your medicine?" A pause. "There you go. This should make things fun tomorrow. Sleep tight." And then the door snapped shut.

ZzZzZ

"Sherlock, I think it's time for you to—"

"Don't you say it. Don't you fucking say it."

There's a pause. "Not sure I've heard you say that word before."

"Fuck you."

"There it is again."

A snarl. "You think this is funny?"

Another moment of silence. "No. It's not funny at all. It's tragic."

"Oh, don't be—"

"Melodramatic? I'm not. John's gone. The doctors are just letting you say your last—" An apparent struggle. "Sherlock, seriously? Quit—"

The door is shut again.

A long silence.

"John, wake up, for god's sake. This is getting ridiculous. Just wake up. Just… please."


	5. The End?

Death is nothing like Hollywood. Sherlock knows this better than anyone. It's a fact that he's lived with and cared little about his entire life.

But suddenly, it matters to him, for the first time ever.

In a film, they would all be sure John was going to live. They would keep him on the electrocardiogram until the very end, and then they would defibrillate him several times, and only then would the bitter end come, dramatic and heart-wrenching like it ought to be—because this is John, and he deserves that at the very least.

That's not how it happens. The electrocardiogram is getting weaker, slowly and painfully. The doctors have already lost hope—John's dying and there's nothing they can do about it. They unhook him from the equipment. They see no point in monitoring the heart when they know it's going to give out.

They've told Sherlock why John isn't likely to wake up.

Somehow, Sherlock managed to miss every word of it. It isn't even in his mind palace. His ears refused to hear it.

They've given up. And Sherlock's damn near giving up too. He doesn't kid himself, not usually. But this…

No. This isn't happening. This…

"John, wake up, for god's sake," Sherlock snaps. "This is getting ridiculous. Just wake up. Just…" Sherlock looks at John's blank, empty face, and his chest tightens to the point that he's not sure he can breathe. "Please." It comes out as a whimper, the kind Sherlock hasn't heard from his own lips in ages.

And then the impossible happens.

John's eyes are fluttering.

"John!" Sherlock gasps, jumping up. "John—you're—_John_!" No other word in the English language matters right now.

John's eyes are open. At first, it's obvious he's seeing nothing, but then he's looking Sherlock in the face. And then his eyebrows pull together.

"Sher—Sherlock," John mutters. "You're… crying."

Sherlock looks at John dubiously. "Does that matter right now?" he enquires, dumbfounded.

"Why are you crying?"

Apparently it does matter right now. In John's state, he's confused. That must be what it is.

"Oh, I just cut some onions," says Sherlock drily.

"No, I tried that. It didn't work."

"I—what?" Sherlock asks, at a loss.

"Wait. Where am I?" Ah. John was definitely confused. Now he's starting to remember. "Am I—oh god. I—you—Moriarty—"

"Moriarty? Did he do this?"

And then John is grinning.

"What the hell are you smiling about?" Sherlock quips, not able to be truly frustrated because he's so happy John's alive.

"You said you couldn't cry. But there you are, crying."

Sherlock continues to be baffled for a long moment.

And then he gets it.

The clumsiness to the point of retardation. The onion. The movies. John had conducted an experiment to make Sherlock cry and failed. And now…

Sherlock's ready to get angry, but then he realizes something else.

The movie. _Brokeback Mountain_ was the one. John's strong reaction… Sherlock suddenly understands it.

And his deduction causes him to make a bold move. He better be right, or this would be really awkward tomorrow.

He lunges forward and kisses John, straight on the lips.

John's looking at him with wide eyes, bewildered.

"You idiot. You wonderful, breathing idiot."

And then John is smiling again, and Sherlock's smiling too.

"I knew you could cry," John says. "I knew it. Say you were wrong."

"I was not completely right," Sherlock admits.

"You were just plain wrong."

"Shut up."

"Shut me up."

Sherlock fully intends to, until Lestrade walks in again, and the "John is alive" chaos ensues, with doctors and yelling and other things Sherlock doesn't really register. He just looks at John, who just looks at him. It's different than before. Heated. No, they couldn't ignore the kiss later. Sherlock was pretty sure he didn't want to anyway.

Yeah, so he was wrong. But maybe, just this once, it was worth it.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for reading. It was just a bit of fun, so I know it wasn't particularly deep. But review anyhow, if you please. I do adore reviews. <strong>


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